The Lost
by Unicadia
Summary: Marius looks through Feuilly's sketchbook after the barricade, a sketchbook of lost memories. T for violence and thematic elements.
1. Introduction: Self-Portrait

**Wow, I am on a roll! I have decided to take on the 100 Themes Challenge! Updates might be slow; please bear with me. You can find the list of themes on the internet - if any of you have an idea for what I could write for the next theme, don't hesitate to suggest it!**

 **Note: These ficlets are in the same "universe" as most of my other stories ( _The Brothers_ universe, I call it), but there will be some changes, as I want to experiment. So don't be surprised if OCs are switched out and things happen differently.**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**

* * *

"How are you feeling, Marius?" M. Gillenormand entered his young grandson's room, along with a maid, who bore a basket filled with clean bandages.

"A little better," Marius croaked from the disheveled bed. Every part of him ached, but the pain from his injuries was less than before. His heart hurt more, though. The faces of those on the barricade kept appearing before his weary mind, tormenting him, never leaving him alone. What had become of them all? They said the barricades had all fallen; what did that mean for Enjolras and Combeferre, gentle Feuilly and sweet Joly? What of Courfeyrac, his friend? And Cosette, his dear Cosette. Would he ever see her again? His head hurt trying to think.

Marius let his grandfather tend to him in miserable silence. The doorbell rang far below downstairs, and the maid left. "Grandfather," he whispered.

M. Gillendormand smiled; a sad smile, Marius thought. "Yes, son?"

"When may I get up? I must find – the others."

"You are still too weak, and your wounds need more time to heal, Marius."

Marius sighed, and turned to face the wall. He heard the maid return. "Something for M'sieur Marius," she announced.

He rolled over. "Who was it, Nicolette?"

She shrugged. "Some officer. He said to give this to you." She handed a plain package to him.

"I will leave you now, Marius," said M. Gillenormand. "But do tell me what it contains." He exited the room along with the maid.

Marius examined the package. A half an inch thick and rectangular, he thought it must be a book. Why an officer would simply give him a book was beyond Marius' understanding, but curiosity urged him to untie the string and remove the paper.

And Marius gasped.

It was the sketchbook. How many times had Marius seen it pulled out, opened to a blank page, and scribbled in, the others pushing each other, trying to catch a glimpse of the drawing, only to have it hidden with an embarrassed smile? He touched the handmade, blood-stained cover, his finger tracing over the name carefully printed in the top left corner: _Sacha-Josef Feuilly._

He made to open the book, but hesitated. In life, Feuilly never showed Marius its contents, not even to those closer to him, like Alexandre Bahorel. Would it be dishonoring to peer through it; to gaze upon Feuilly's secrets, the outpourings of his heart, the images he formed and cradled in his mind, all which he had hidden beneath his hard, stoic exterior?

Marius did not know, but he longed to lift the worn cover and discover at long last what lay under it. He stroked the edge of the binding, contemplating. Feuilly had considered him his friend. He wouldn't mind now.

Feeling a little guilty, Marius opened the sketchbook.

A half-finished sketch of Feuilly himself appraised Marius. But as he gazed at the self-portrait of the fan-maker, he realized it couldn't be Feuilly. The face was too angular and harsh. Indeed, Feuilly had possessed rather hard features, but they were excessively defined in the picture. Neither had his hair been so lank and stringy. His cheeks were far too sunken in, the eyes too devoid of life. For all of Feuilly's talent, he had not depicted himself kindly. Marius knew the artist had preferred revealing truth, but he thought he had been too critical of his own looks. He smiled, remembering Sacha Feuilly's wild auburn hair, his stinging brown eyes, the freckles dusting his sickly pale skin, his long bony hands stained with the paints he used to decorate fans, the thin coat he wore everywhere. Poor Feuilly. No, not poor. Feuilly would hate to be thought of that way. A tear rolled down Marius' cheek. He thought of Feuilly's gentle voice, a voice that rivaled Jean Prouvaire's, and how he would quietly sing to himself while he sketched.

Marius turned the page.


	2. Complicated: Corinth

_A sketch of the Cornith, a tall, dilapidated building which leaned to one side, giving it the appearance of a haphazard structure from a fairytale._

Night cast over the Corinth wine shop, and the main part of the revolutionaries' meeting had finished, and Enjolras' lieutenants lingered and chatted. Feuilly leaned over his table in the corner and sketched directly onto it. From where Marius sat, he looked half-asleep, partly on top of the table, his face inches from the wood, his free hand almost in his wine glass. His pencil moved like he were drawing in tar. Marius decided he should make another effort with the fan maker, and wandered over to where he sat alone.

As Marius' shadow fell over him, Feuilly looked up and gave him a tiny smile. Dark circles hung below his dull brown eyes. Marius returned the smile, feeling awkward. He never really knew how to act around Feuilly, the only working-class member of the group. How did the others manage it? "Hey, Feuilly. I – um, what are you drawing?" He edged closer to the seated man, reached out to lean on the table, and knocked Feuilly's arm, which skidded out of the line he had been sketching. "Oh, sorry."

Feuilly shook his head. "It's fine. It's no great work of art, anyway."

Surprised and pleased that Feuilly was allowing him to see his drawings for once, Marius leaned closer to examine the marks on the table. Flowers bloomed where old wood rotted before. Vines curled around the edges, and butterflies floated among them. A deer's head reared from a tangle of roses and leaves, birds resting on its antlers.

"Feuilly, that is amazing!" Marius cried. Without thinking, he added, "Have you ever considered painting murals for cathedrals?"

Feuilly's tight-lipped, frozen smile told Marius he had said something wrong. He glanced around the room. Everyone else was engaged. He turned back, blushing and awkward. "I-"

"It's complicated," Feuilly interjected, his voice cold. "I can't expect you to understand."

Marius blinked, his face went redder. He shuffled his feet. "I'm – sorry, Feuilly. I don't suppose I do – understand."

"It's all right. I'm used to it." Feuilly stood, gathered his things, and brushed past Marius as he headed for the stairs.

Marius gazed after him, distraught. But what could he say? Talking to Feuilly was always awkward. One could not speak of normal things with him. He sighed, and made to join Jean Prouvaire and Bahorel at their table, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Courfeyrac, his best friend, smiling gently. "I heard what happened," Courfeyrac whispered.

Marius reddened again. "I'm a fool. I didn't even think."

Courfeyrac shook his head. "No, Marius. You truly don't understand, and it's not foolish. Feuilly lost his job today and hasn't been himself all evening. Try not to be so hard on him." He paused. "Or yourself."

Marius winced and hung his head. "I might have been more sensitive, though. I keep thinking I can talk to him like I talk to you."

Courfeyrac chuckled. "He forgives you, Marius. Feuilly is one of the noblest souls I know of. He understands it is difficult for you, difficult for all of us. He usually takes it in stride. Today just was not the best day."

Marius looked up, startled. "It's hard for you, too? You all talk to him with such ease."

Courfeyrac shrugged. "For Bahorel it is easy. Joly and Combeferre, too. They have a knack. The rest of us struggle. But we've known him for longer than you have, Marius. Please, give yourself some grace."

"I must make amends, though! What can I do, Courfeyrac? What would he accept?"

"You have it all wrong. That would make it worse. Feuilly is very proud. He rarely accepts anything. You must let it go. He knows you didn't say it out malice."

Marius stared at the floor, agitated. "But what will he do? Without a job? We can't just stand by while one of our friends suffers."

Courfeyrac grasped Marius shoulders and squared him in the eyes. "Marius. I know you want to help. We all do. But we know Feuilly too well. If he wants our help, he will let us know. Believe me, it will only makes matters worse if we try intervening. This is one of those times when we have to let him find his own way. Do you trust me?"

Marius sighed in resignation. "He was right; it is complicated."


	3. Making History: Enjolras

_A portrait of Enjolras. His eyes burn with passion, but the rest of him looks too young to be the leader of a revolutionary group. A soft jawline, small but set lips, long tendrils of light hair escaping his tie and falling over his pallid forehead. His steady, intense gaze stares up from the paper, daring the viewer to stand against him._

An eighteen-year-old boy stood in the doorway of the stone-block university as his fellow students streamed out, free for a few hours. He watched them go, his blue gaze sized them up, his arm thrust out, his hand clutched a pamphlet, passed it to a student, took another one from the thick stack he held in his other hand, and repeated the process.

"Enjolras! What are you doing?" Monsieur Picard, a professor at the university, approached the boy, his face red and tight. The students shied around the black-suited man, giving him and his victim a wide berth. The boy stood his ground, head held high. "What have we here?" Monsieur Picard snatched the pamphlet from his hand and examined it. "Enjolras, don't you realize this is blatant treason you have printed here?" he hissed after a moment. "You could get imprisoned for this rubbish. Or worse."

"I have printed the truth, nothing more," said the boy, Enjolras, his voice low and calm.

Monsieur Picard glared. "I doubt His Majesty would agree." He straightened, and wadded the pamphlet into his coat pocket. "Besides, all printed articles must be approved by the university before distribution. Hand me the rest, Enjolras, and you will be pardoned, this time."

Enjolras hesitated, then relinquished the stack to Monsieur Picard.

"Excellent." The professor patted the top of the stack, then turned and marched into the stone-block building.

"Why did you let him take them?" A chestnut-haired student close to Enjolras' age sidled up to him, a pamphlet in his left hand.

"I didn't think it was the time to fight back."

The boy arched an eyebrow, a teasing smile on his lips. "Meaning you will fight back later?"

Enjolras dared a small smile. "Yes."

The boy laughed and held out his hand. "Courfeyrac. André Courfeyrac."

Enjolras shook his hand. "Louis-Philippe Enjolras. Are you related to the de Courfeyracs?"

Courfeyrac shook his head, his chestnut curls swishing across his forehead. "I am, but 'de' is so old-fashioned."

Enjolras brightened. "Then we think alike."

"Indeed."

Enjolras motioned to the pamphlet. "What do you think?"

"Incredible. A revolution. I never thought of it. I usually ignore the poor, mostly because I do not know what do to for them. Certainly, I give them money, but it always feels so useless, and the situation doesn't improve." He cocked his head. "Have you considered forming a society?"

Enjolras frowned. "A society?"

"Certainly. A society for like-minded people. People who think the only way to change is through revolution."

"Which is not so."

Startled, Enjolras and Courfeyrac turned and saw another student, a little older than both of them, approaching. He rivalled Enjolras' accosting gaze: soft blue eyes which spoke infinite depths when focused on a subject.

"What do you mean?" asked Enjolras, unsure if he liked the newcomer or not.

"Certainly revolution can bring about change. But it is too sudden, and can have disastrous results. Do not tell me the Revolution of 1789 was bloodless, or successful. A more lasting, peaceful route is through education and the slow changing of people's minds."

Anger boiled inside Enjolras. "Do you think the people have time for that? While you wait, men and women die and children starve. A little sacrifice must be made for the good of all."

"'A little sacrifice'? How little? As little as the revolutions we've had in the past, none of which, I hasten to remind you, have had any lasting effect?"

"What is your name?" Enjolras did not have a ready answer for these questions, but he intended to find them out later.

"Etienne Combeferre. You are Enjolras, are you not?"

Some of Enjolras' anger dissolved. "How did you know?"

"You were detained last year."

Enjolras reddened. But Combeferre smiled gently. "For handing in a paper with a 'distinct treasonous flavor,' am I right?"

"You have guessed it."

Turning to Courfeyrac, Combeferre said, "I heard you mention forming a society."

"What is it to you?" Enjolras growled before Courfeyrac could answer. "You are not 'like-minded.'"

"Not entirely, but I think we can agree that a change must be made. We simply differ as to its execution. I am not opposed to revolution, if it must be so, if that is any comfort to you."

Surprised, Enjolras replied, "I suppose. Do you think you could recruit anyone for us?"

Combeferre smiled a very small smile. "Is that the condition on which I may join you?"

"No. You may join."

"Then I have several in mind who might sympathize with you." The smile broadened. "With us."

Courfeyrac interjected with a laugh, "Then let us make history, gentlemen."


	4. Rivalry: Joly, Laigle, Musichetta

_A lightly sketched scene of Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta strolling down a down a cobblestone street, the sun washing out most of the details. The two men look down at Musichetta with tender smiles, and she grins up at Joly in a devilish way._

"I met the most wonderful girl today," announced Hyacinthe-Félicien Joly with a dramatic wave of his arms as he entered the back room of the Musain.

"Finally," shouted Courfeyrac.

"Who is she, Joly?" asked Combeferre, earning a glare from Enjolras.

Before he could answer, Fernand Laigle, also known as Bossuet, came up behind Joly. "Poor Joly has been addled all day. That pneumonia must have affected him worse than we thought. He meant to say _I_ met the most wonderful girl today." He laid a hand on the taller man's shoulder. Joly shrugged him off.

"Finally," Courfeyrac repeated, but with less enthusiasm and more confusion.

Joly laughed, and turned on Laigle. "My dear Bossuet. You quite forget that I spoke to her first. And it was tuberculosis, not pneumonia."

"Of course. Forgive me. You had pneumonia last month." A gracious smile and an extravagant bow from Laigle. "And you, my sweet Joly, forget that I saw her first."

Joly's jaw tightened, his smile strained. "Yes, but how many times did she dance with you? Only twice. She danced with me the rest of the evening."

"Indeed, that was because you pounced on her every time another man even looked at her. You never gave me a chance."

"Bossuet, Joly, will you please stop so we may begin the meeting?" Enjolras interjected before Joly could respond.

The two men nodded, sidelong glares exchanged, and sat down with Bahorel at their usual table.

"Now," began Enjolras, "We will rally in front of General Lamarque's house tomorrow and . . ."

Bahorel leaned close to Joly and whispered, "What is her name?"

Joly's hazel eyes glowed, and he whispered back, "Musichetta Tremblay. Isn't that the most beautiful name you have ever heard? _Musichetta._ A ballerina. I escorted her to the party after her show and-"

" _I_ escorted her, Joly. She held my arm."

"Well, she was also holding my arm." Joly straightened in his seat and gave Laigle what he was probably trying to construe as a lofty look, but which came across as awkward. "And she kissed my cheek, Bossuet. There is no denying she loves me."

Bahorel frowned. "Joly, you only just met her. How can you say that?"

Joly turned on Bahorel, glaring. "Have you met Marius Pontmercy?"

Bahorel groaned. "Joly, Hyacinthe-Félicien Désiré Joly, please do not compare yourself with that bumbling 'Bonapartist democrat.' Use your head."

"Certainly," said Laigle, giving Joly a smug look. "If you would use your head, you would consider why a beautiful ballerina like Musichetta would even be interested in you."

Joly shook. "What do you mean by that, my _dear_ Bossuet?"

"Well, look at you! Your eyes are too big, like an insect's. And your skin! One would think you just came from the mortuary."

Joly looked down at his hand and frowned. "Bossuet, don't encourage him," Bahorel hissed, glancing at Enjolras, who was watching them with a disapproving air.

"And as for your hair! So lifeless, so colorless. It looks like seaweed. You really should cut it."

Joly raised his eyebrows. "Just because you're bald . . ."

"And what of your legs?"

"What's wrong with my legs?"

"They're so long and bony. It's a wonder that you can dance."

Joly stood up, knocking his chair over. Wrath flared from his too-large eyes. "And what would a lovely ballerina do with a bald fool who is constantly falling over his own feet? You can't dance at all!"

Laigle jumped up and grabbed a hank of Joly's curls, pulling him across the table, toppling the wine glasses. "You call me a fool? What of the boy who is perpetually ill? You would force that poor girl to wait on you hand and foot, pouring a fortune's worth of medicines down your spoiled throat!"

Joly swung his arm at Laigle's face as hard as he could. His fist connected with Laigle's nose. Laigle released Joly and stumbled away, clutching his nose, but Joly leaped off the table and launched himself at his victim. Bahorel jumped to his feet, yelling, "Fight! Fight!"

"Joly, Bossuet, stop this!" Enjolras shouted above the noise. "Bahorel, stop them!"

Bahorel either did not hear Enjolras, or chose to ignore him. Feuilly rushed forward and grabbed Joly around the waist, heaving him off Laigle, whom Courfeyrac pulled away. Laigle's bald head gleamed with sweat, and Joly's hair, dripping and falling into his flushed face, looked even more like seaweed now. Enjolras approached his two disheveled lieutenants, arms behind his back, his face fierce.

"Now, Joly. Bossuet. What was that all about? I thought you two were best friends. A woman is the silliest thing you can allow to pull you two apart."

The two men stared at each other, breathing hard. At last Laigle said, in a heaving voice, "You're right, Enjolras."

"Quite," Joly agreed. "Perhaps we can sort this out."

Laigle managed a small smile. "Yes. A compromise."

Joly's face brightened. "A compromise."

Combeferre frowned. "I don't see how that would work in this case . . ."

"We can share Musichetta!" said Laigle.

"Inspired!" cried Joly. He looked down at Feuilly. "You can let me go now." Feuilly released him, and Joly and Bossuet shook hands. The rest of the Friends of the ABC stared on with open mouths.


	5. Unbreakable: Bahorel

_A portrait of Alexandre Bahorel. A charming, disarming smile. Harsh, dark eyes. Long, disheveled bangs falling over his forehead in a dashing, devilish way. Rough sideburns. His whole demeanor spoke of an unbreakable, resolute man._

One quiet night at the Musain, the Friends of the ABC discussed in whispers the cholera epidemic ravaging the city. None of them knew why they whispered; they also did not know why Alexandre Bahorel, usually one of the first to arrive, was absent. Enjolras glanced up at the door every so often, distracting the others and Combeferre especially.

The evening deteriorated and found the young men idly staring at the old map of Paris hanging on the wall. The door creaked, and all heads turned.

Alexandre Bahorel stood in the doorway, his confident, wild smile on his face. But Combeferre caught the tense hands, the stiff legs, the twitch in his jaw. Courfeyrac caught the unusually well-groomed hair.

"Bahorel!" he cried, breaking the silence. "You finally took my advice."

Bahorel's face crushed in with confusion, but cleared an instant later, the confident smile back.

"Your hair," Courfeyrac amended. Bahorel nodded.

"Why are you late?" Enjolras asked, rising from his seat.

"Personal business. It's over now." His jaw tightened. "What did I miss?"

"Not much," replied Combeferre. "Is something wrong, Bahorel?"

Bahorel's face reddened. "No. Of course not."

"Why would you ask that, Combeferre?" said Courfeyrac. "Aside from being late, there's nothing wrong with Bahorel."

Bahorel nodded, and walked, stiffly (Combeferre noted), to his seat. While the meeting lasted, Bahorel sat still, drinking, the glasses accumulating on the table, more numerous than any night before. He did not engage the others or punctuate Enjolras' remarks with shouts or bangs on the table, as he often did. The meeting did not go on much longer, and soon everyone began leaving. Bahorel lingered, staring at his wine with glassy eyes. Combeferre waited until the others left, then approached him. "Bahorel, I know something's wrong," he said as he sat beside the larger man. "Tell me."

Bahorel closed his eyes and mumbled something.

Combeferre frowned, unsure if he heard right. "What?"

"My wife died today."

Combeferre stared at Bahorel, unable to formulate words. Several thoughts rushed to the fore of his mind all in a rush: Bahorel had been married? To whom? When? Why hadn't he told the others? How did she die?

Bahorel sighed and spoke in a low, shaking voice. "She – she died of cholera."

Combeferre thought of Adelaide, his own wife, and his heart chilled. He swallowed, and whispered, "Who was she?"

"Évelyne. Évelyne, my angel." A single tear coursed down his cheek.

"Why didn't you ever tell us?" Combeferre feared he sounded too accusing.

"I never thought to. She did not belong in this part of my world."

Combeferre regarded his friend in astonishment. Bahorel. Alexandre Bahorel, married, broken, weeping. He never imagined.

"I have a child."

Combeferre's astonishment knew no bounds. ". . . Bahorel. A child?"

"A little girl-child." A tiny smile, not charming, disarming, confident, or wild. More like vulnerable, bare, weak, lost. "Little Évelyne. No mother for Évelyne. Only a drunk scoundrel she must call father." He leaned onto the table, which groaned beneath his weight.

Combeferre's mind cleared. At last he knew what to say. "Bring her here sometime."

Bahorel shook his head, his long bangs brushing the top of the table. "Would Enjolras allow it?"

"Certainly. I know it. She will have many fathers." Combeferre hesitated, then brought his arm around Bahorel's hunched form. Bahorel stiffened, but otherwise did not move.

They remained thus for a long time.

Then Combeferre stood, put on his coat, and left.


	6. Obsession: Prouvaire

_A picture of Jean Prouvaire collapsed over a table, bright, polished stones lying in piles around him. A strand of his hair hangs over one eye, and his arm, resting on the table, conceals his other eye. His hand lies poised in a pen-gripping position._

Marius walked down the path in the Luxembourg Park, making his way to the bench the lovely girl in gray and her terrifying father always occupied. Absorbed in his dream-like thoughts of dancing with her in the Salon de Fêtes, he did not see Jean Prouvaire crouching in the path until he tripped over him and sprawled onto the pavement. After a moment, Marius eased himself up onto his stinging palms and looked behind him. Jean Prouvaire remained in the center of the path, apparently fascinated by something on the ground. Marius groaned, and stood, brushing his trousers off. "Prouvaire, what are you doing?"

"I am looking for pebbles." Prouvaire did not shift his gaze.

Marius frowned. Only an inch of space separated Prouvaire's nose from the ground. "Indeed . . . why?"

Now Prouvaire sat up, but he looked hurt and a bit disdainful. "Why indeed? Pebbles contain entire worlds, they breathe with a vibrancy that no one on earth can detect, and make up every plane of existence! Consider the impact and the knowledge one will gain from the collecting of such exquisite, incomprehensible formations of tiny, perfect minerals. One might be King Solomon for all the wonder pebbles could bring to man." He sighed, deep and passionate, his eyes heaven-drawn, his hands resting palm-up on his knees – an image of complete awe-struck ecstasy.

Marius cleared his throat. "Pebbles are just rocks, Prouvaire. There's no-"

But Prouvaire leaped to his feet and grabbed Marius by his cravat, pulling him close to his face, which burned with wrath. "Pebbles are not 'just rocks,' my dear, ignorant man. If it were not for God's blessing of pebbles, the ground beneath your feet would crumble away, leaving you stranded and flying away in the vast emptiness of space, parted forever from your beloved. Do you not realize the importance of pebbles? And all practicality aside, pebbles contain mysteries even the most learned men of our day cannot imagine. Their wonders and beauties are infinite, spanning across the human continuum in ageless awe and luminosity. If one were to uncover all their mysteries, surely he would have no further need of bliss on this physical plane in which we now dwell." He gave Marius' cravat a tug, and narrowed his sky-blue (or rather, sapphire-pebble blue) eyes. "Consider it well, poor Marius. A pebble may one day be a turning point in your life, and you would be utterly foolish not to recognize or appreciate it." He released Marius and stalked down the path, gaze fixed on the ground once more.

Marius rubbed his neck and watched Prouvaire go, feeling a little shaken, but enlightened as well. As he looked aside, he spotted a black-burnished pebble lying at his feet. He stooped and picked it up. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and examined it. Perhaps, after cleaning and polishing it, he could lay on his love's bench, as a token. If Jean Prouvaire proved correct, surely a girl could wish for no other gift.

The next day, Cosette found a small rock on her bench. She knocked it away before sitting down with her father.


	7. Eternity: Grantaire

**As the last installment was shorter than usual, here is another chapter for you guys!**

 **Note: As I do not do slash, Grantaire's consideration of the Friends, and especially of Enjolras, are purely from a friendship/admiring perspective.**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**

* * *

 _A strange little sketch of Mathieu Grantaire. The large back room of the Musain takes up most of the picture, though it is quite empty and devoid of clear details – mostly half-formed lines. The clearest part of the picture is Grantaire sprawled on a chair on left side of the page, almost an after-thought, his dark curls standing out clearest of all._

Mathieu Grantaire watched to them all, every night, from his corner where he downed bottle after bottle of absinthe. He would often talk, rambling on and on about nothing, the others groaning and ordering him to silence. While his words filled his ears, he watched them and thought about them and wondered at them. Appearances meant more to him than he cared to admit, as the good Lord had failed him in that regard. He knew he judged too readily by the flash of eyes, the color lamplight bestowed on hair, and movements of arms, legs, and necks, but he almost felt it offered another look at his supposedly righteous companions.

Combeferre. Etienne Combeferre always looked half-asleep. Perhaps his half-closed, slow-blinking eyes gave this illusion. He moved with precision and care, never hurrying, reflecting his gentle, studious nature. On the other hand, he was often too slow for Enjolras (ah, Apollo!), who would turn to Courfeyrac if not satisfied by Combeferre's lengthy, measured answers. Combeferre also cared too much for that girl, his wife. Grantaire often saw him gazing at his ring or leave a meeting early so as not to worry poor Posie.

André Courfeyrac's hair embodied his spirit – rich, deep brown, glossy, and perfect. A graceful toss of his curls, shining brown eyes, and a sunny smile with a coy undertone, all made girls giggle and hide behind their fans. His bright appearance reflected his bright personality, which drew them all together. Grantaire was horribly jealous of Courfeyrac. The only thing wrong with him was his flirtatious habits.

Alexandre Bahorel laughed like a thunderstorm and looked like one, too. Gold-like eyes, stained waistcoats, torn shirts revealing scars, long brown bangs, a wild toothy grin, huge hands. Since his wife died (Grantaire could not understand why men married at all), he had taken to drinking more than he used to. Grantaire felt strangely sorry for the huge, slightly crazy man, knowing, at least in some small way, what demons possessed him.

Sacha-Josef Feuilly. Tall and lean. Or perhaps skinny was a better word. Silent, except when incited. Stoic, except when angered. Secret – always. He hunched when he sat, tracing designs on scraps of paper. A tiny, offered smile when complimented. Too proud. A defiant fire burning behind his reserved brown eyes. A confident tip of his battered hat. Shaggy sideburns Courfeyrac was fond of pulling, inducing the tiny smile again. An odd swagger, which Grantaire called "The Feuilly Stride."

Jean Prouvaire, called Jehan, dressed the way his mind worked – chaotic. Grantaire liked listing the ways Jehan pulled off complete chaos every night: from his feathered hat, to his shoes with bows on the buckles, to his hip-long strawberry-blonde hair, to the ink stains dotting his garish coats. Jehan blushed often – Grantaire also liked counting the number of times the rather rough-looking man blushed for apparently no reason during the course of the meetings. Jehan often looked melancholy, which made Grantaire wonder, but he never questioned the love-sick poet.

Hyacinthe-Félicien Joly. Jolllly. Bizarre. Joly might have been handsome if not for his deeply pox-scarred face and his enormous hazel eyes. When he smiled, though, you forgot the pockmarks and the bewildered-looking eyes; you forgot the gray day and the disgust shot at you from Enjolras, the bills and the bitter absinthe you poured down your throat to ease the pain. Sweet Jolllly could not sit still, though. He fidgeted with everything, always nervous, always pale, always sick, always strange.

Fernand Laigle, AKA Bossuet, went nowhere without Joly. Though shorter than the hypochondriac, he was his constant guardian, often at his own expense. The world existed at Bossuet's expense, Grantaire laughed to himself. His shabby clothing and bald head proved this. Something always happened to their "bald eagle," which he took with a cheerful stride and Joly at his side. Shining, green eyes and a confident, I-don't-care-if-the-world-is-against-me smile.

Enjolras. Louis-Philippe Enjolras. Apollo. Angelic. Perfect. Golden hair, like sunlight caught in tangible form. Eyes like the sky, a perfect, cloudless sky. And a burning, disdainful gaze which wounded Grantaire, but which also kept him alive. So much better than him, his ideal. If such beauty and light existed in the broken, black world – well, then there was hope for the broken, black world, and perhaps, perhaps, Enjolras' bright eternity existed as well.

Perhaps.


	8. Gateway: Moth

**Sorry this chapter's so short! The next one will be longer, I promise.**

 **Thank you for all the lovely reviews; they are very appreciated!**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**

* * *

 _A sketch of a moth. Not a good drawing, not for Feuilly. But he preferred depicting people over animals, and especially insects, anyway. Perhaps he was trying to copy one of Combeferre's drawings, where the moths took flight from their paper._

The bird lay still and cold in Etienne Combeferre's large, but gentle hands, the last traces of its warmth seeping into them. He stared at it a long time, the sunlight from the window in his room pouring over him, casting the dead bird in gold. Combeferre imagined the light as some sort of reviving spirit, and the bird raised its head, golden with angelic beauty and swept out the window, leaving a tingle in his hands.

But a cloud passed in front of the sun, and the room became shadowy and tomb-like once again, the bird cold and dead in his hands.

Combeferre set the bird on his desk and sat down, studying it. It looked so fragile, so helpless even, despite being dead. Strange, he thought, how only moments before it breathed, it lived. If only he knew more about birds, perhaps he could have saved it. Or perhaps not. He did not pretend he understood death, or really why anything died at all. Certainly, he understood the science behind it, but the fundamental reasons behind the science – what were they? He thought about Enjolras and their Cause, and though no one spoke it aloud, they all knew Death lurked behind them, waiting for them, waiting to devour them. They would all die, on a barricade or in front of a wall somewhere, twenty rifles aimed at them.

Death was a . . . strange thing. It could take something warm, something that moved, that ate, that drank, that thought, that dreamed and talked and wondered and laughed and cried – and transform it into something that didn't. As he gazed upon the bird, he wondered what he would look like as a corpse. He would look like Etienne Combeferre – but gray and limp and maybe even fragile.

The cloud moved by, and the golden light flowed in again, and the bird did not look so gray and limp anymore. The sun made its fragility beautiful, like a bird cast in gold.

Life did not end with death.

Combeferre did not know about birds and moths, but he did know death did not cut off the human soul from existence. It opened out, a door to something else. How would one travel from this life to the next? One needs a door. Death is the door, a gateway which leads to a land bathed in golden light, where a river runs on forever, trees on either hand. Or, it leads to a land cast in shadows, alone and gray and limp.

He stroked the silken feathers.

But all must pass through the gateway.


	9. Death: Prouvaire

**Update! Hurray! I know my description of Jean Prouvaire is a little unconventional, but did Victor Hugo say what he looked like? No, he did not. :p**

 **Thank you for all the reviews! They keep me motivated!**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**

* * *

 _A portrait of Jean Prouvaire. Jehan. A rough, angular face, and stubble on his chin, one would think him a fighter like Bahorel. But his sweet, vulnerable eyes bespoke of his youth and his gentleness. His long hair tumbled around his shoulders, knotted and free – like his spirit._

Firelight glowed on the barricade. Marius looked fierce, like a demon, the torch casting strange shadows across his face, the gunpowder keg squeezed in his arms. Jean Prouvaire watched, in a trance, oblivious to the fact that the fire cast similar shadows across his own angular face. His breath came up from his lungs, shallow and raw. The terrible, horrible, beauty of the moment overwhelmed him, and his arms relaxed, his rifle hanging harmless by his side. He stood apart from the others, taking them all the in – the soldiers, half on the barricade, staring in horror at Marius, of all people; Bahorel's dead body cast beneath them, melting into the shadows, bloody and vulnerable; Feuilly, partially on top of him, frozen, the fire lighting upon the traces of tears running clean lines down his dirty, gunpowder-black face; Enjolras, hovering behind Marius, staring up at him in pride, and perhaps with even a little fear; and Marius himself, poised on the highest point of the barricade, carrying in his hands all their fates, life and death, and beauty.

Jean Prouvaire, so enamored by this scene, never heard the soldiers coming up behind him in the cold darkness void of firelight. They hit him in the head with the side of a rifle, and as he staggered, his brain swirling, they pulled him over the barricade, and the others did not know it.

Through the blackness they took Jehan. He felt a warm wetness on the side of his head, and he instinctively moved him arm to touch it, but he couldn't because the soldiers dragged him by his arms. The dream begun by Marius and the torch and the keg of gunpowder went on, at least for Jehan. He felt nothing. He was aware of the pain in his head, the dizziness, the disorientation, and the tear in his shoulders as the soldiers pulled him along, but these all felt far, far away, and strange.

At last, they stopped, and he heard words, spoken among a group of men, but he did not know what they said. They heaved him to his feet and tied his hands behind his back. The rope cut into his wrists, but he did not notice it. They pushed him against something, a wall, their hand bruising his skin. He saw their shadowy figures, moving like ghosts, and the distant firelight of the barricade casting over them. The ghosts assembled themselves, and he heard a chorus of soft _clicks._ He blinked, and looked back at the light, so far away now. He blinked again, and his brain formed a thought at last, _How did I get here?_

"Do you wish to be blindfolded, boy?"

Jehan did not answer. A tear ran down his cheek as he gazed at the fire.

"Boy, answer me! Do you wish to be blindfolded, or not?"

Jehan's voice, emotionless and empty. "Why would I wish to be blindfolded?" He did not remember deciding to say the words, or actually saying them himself, but the words appeared in the air between him and the ghosts, and they hung there, shivering in the warm night.

"You are going to be shot, for traitorous acts against His Majesty."

"But why would I want a blindfold?"

The ghosts trembled, and beat at the words. "If you do not wish to see your death."

Perhaps they did not say it so beautifully. Jehan stared at the ghosts, and made out their rifles. Beautiful words, but a bit inaccurate. Rifles were not death. They were steel and other tangible, material things. You could not touch Death. Death came in the black of night and swept you away. Could you see it? Jehan closed his eyes. He saw fields and clouds and endless roads, and fires on barricades. He smiled. Yes, he could. And it was beautiful.

He opened his eyes. "No."

"'No' what?"

"No blindfold."

"Very well." A pause, then, "Fire!"

The world exploded, and he saw fire again, beautiful fire, enveloping him, warm and welcome, beautiful fire, beautiful death.

And then –

It stopped.


	10. Opportunities: Courfeyrac

**Wow! This turned out way longer than I meant it to be. I hope you like it!**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**

* * *

 _A sketch of Courfeyrac, depicted in light, brief lines. He leans back in his chair, a sarcastic grin on his face. In his hand, he wields a fan, probably one of Feuilly's, cocking it in an exaggerated, flouncy manner. From Courfeyrac's ridiculous pose, to the hastily scribbled lines, the whole drawing radiates light and merriment._

André Courfeyrac trudged out of the brick university into the snowy air, staring at the ground as he placed one heavy foot in front of the other. "Courfeyrac," a familiar voice called. Looking up, he saw Etienne Combeferre standing at the bottom of the steps leading up to the university. Courfeyrac hurried down the rest of the way to his friend.

"Hello, Combeferre." They walked together down the snow-covered path.

"You look uncommonly solitary," Combeferre said. "I haven't seen a girl trailing after you for more than a week. What happened?"

"Don't give me that look, Combeferre," Courfeyrac snapped, but a smile hovered on his lips.

Combeferre started. "What look?"

"Your 'this is your own fault and you really have to settle down and marry a nice girl, Courfeyrac' look."

Combeferre blinked. "I was not aware of it."

"You give it to me almost all the time." Courfeyrac smiled very sweetly.

"Well, forgive me. Now about –"

Courfeyrac waved him away. "Yes, yes, that." He put his hands in his pockets. "Blair turned out to be a nag. I bid her adieu some days ago. Now I am free once again."

"Oh, what a shame," Combeferre mumbled.

"I heard that," said Courfeyrac. "For the moment, I have no wish to be in the company of the female sex. I'm sick of them."

"Really." Sarcasm dripped from Combeferre's lips. Courfeyrac turned on him.

"Will you stop that? Not everyone is as lucky as you. I will settle down as soon as I find the right girl."

Combeferre lowered his head. "Forgive me. Again."

Courfeyrac sighed. "Oh, I should be the one begging forgiveness. I've been speaking too harshly to you. I just – haven't felt like myself for a some time." He sensed Combeferre's longing to say something to that as well, but he kept his mouth shut. "I need to do something. Something reckless."

Combeferre sighed. "Why, Courfeyrac? We already have enough recklessness to go around."

"What? You want me to sit around like you and Joly, bored your of your minds, but oh, so nice and safe?" But before Combeferre could answer, Courfeyrac stopped, straightened, his face lighting up, a smile spreading across it. He grasped Combeferre's shoulders. "I know it, Combeferre! I know what I can do!"

"Oh, dear," Combeferre muttered. "I suppose it's reckless?"

Courfeyrac rubbed his hands together. "Very reckless. I might die."

Combeferre rolled his eyes. "Are you going to challenge Bahorel to a fist-fight?"

"No. But that is a good idea. Perhaps –"

Combeferre groaned. "What's your plan, Courfeyrac?"

"I'm going to find Feuilly a girlfriend!"

"I thought you said you didn't want to have anything to do with the female sex."

"And I don't. This is about Feuilly, not me."

"And why are you picking on poor Feuilly?"

Courfeyrac looked shocked. "You sound as though I'm going to do something horrible to him!"

"Courfeyrac, you are not matchmaker material. You can't even find a girl for yourself. You're going to end up getting Feuilly a girl that's more trouble than she's worth."

Courfeyrac glared at his companion. "I am insulted that you have such little confidence in my abilities, Combeferre. I will make you a bet. Ten francs that I find Feuilly the perfect girl in a week."

"Make it twenty francs. And she must be good."

Courfeyrac grinned. "In a week!"

* * *

Six days later, Courfeyrac pulled Combeferre aside as soon as he emerged from the university. "I finally found the perfect girl, Combeferre!"

Combeferre shook him off. "Took you long enough. Who is she?"

"Well, I don't know, but she's perfect!"

"But –"

Courfeyrac dragged Combeferre over to the plaza next to the university, where a small cluster of girls and a few young men chattered. Courfeyrac leaned close to Combeferre and pointed to a petite girl in a scarlet bonnet. "Her! Isn't she lovely? If I wasn't so appalled by girls at the moment, I would take her for myself."

Combeferre studied the girl Courfeyrac had selected. After a moment, he said, "Courfeyrac, that's Musichetta."

Courfeyrac blinked. "Musichetta?" He glanced at her. "You know her? Excellent!"

"No, Courfeyrac. Musichetta, as in Joly's girlfriend."

Courfeyrac frowned. "That is not Joly's girlfriend."

"Yes, she is. She's even wearing the bonnet he bought her."

Courfeyrac laid a hand on Combeferre's shoulder. "My dear Combeferre, I know much more about girls than you do. I have had nine girlfriends, and you have had only one. I know what Joly's girlfriend looks like, and that is not her. She is much too beautiful. With all due respect to Jolllly, he does not have the wits or the looks to win a girl that exquisite. In addition, that girl has golden locks. Musilette has brown."

"Musi _chetta_ has yellow hair, not brown."

"You are addled. Too much time drawing moths. Watch, I'll go ask her." Courfeyrac sauntered over to the group, grinning. He sidled up next to the girl in question and tapped her shoulder. "Mademoiselle –"

"Oh, hello, M'sieur Courfeyrac! And hello, M'sieur Combeferre!" She waved to Combeferre, smiling broadly, dimples in her cheeks.

Courfeyrac sputtered, "But – you, how –"

"Why, M'sieur Courfeyrac, don't you remember me? Musichetta Tremblay? Hyacinthe's girlfriend?"

In a dazed voice, Courfeyrac said, "Who's Hyacinthe?"

The girl cocked her head in confusion. "Hyacinthe-Félicien Joly? Aren't you both part of Les Amis de l'ABC?"

Courfeyrac's head cleared. "Oh, yes. We're friends."

Musichetta laughed. "Did you want something, M'sieur Courfeyrac?"

"Uhh . . ." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Combeferre, arms folded, tapping his foot. In a moment, he had recalculated his plan of attack. He faced Musichetta, composed and grinning once more. "Actually, I wanted you to meet a friend of mine. Do you know Sacha-Josef Feuilly?"

"I have heard of him, but I have never met him."

"He is a delight! An artist! Come to the Musain tonight at nine and we'll introduce him to you."

Musichetta looked startled. "Actually, I was going to the Musain tonight with Hyacinthe –"

Courfeyrac winced, but pushed ahead. "Perfect! You can meet him then." He lifted her gloved hand to his lips, kissed it, swept her a bow, and then hurried over to Combeferre.

"I told you she was Musichetta."

Courfeyrac pretended not to hear him. "She's just the girl for Feuilly."

Combeferre's mouth fell open. "Courfeyrac, she's Joly's. You can't –"

"First of all, I only have one day left to find Feuilly a girlfriend. I'm a little desperate. And secondly, with all due respect to Joly, he does not deserve such an exquisite girl. Blair is much more his type. He probably won't even be able to hold onto Musichessie for much longer, anyway. I will be doing him a favor. Besides, she looks as though she comes from a well-to-do family, which will certainly help out our dear Feuilly."

Combeferre groaned. "Don't you know marrying for money is the worst way to find love? And Feuilly hates charity." He shook his head. "And it doesn't even matter! Musichetta is Joly's girlfriend!"

"Not for long!"

* * *

That evening, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and a highly suspicious Feuilly entered the Café Musain and sat down at a table. Courfeyrac grinned as usual, Combeferre leaned on the table with his head in his hands, and Feuilly absently tapped the side of his chair. "Courfeyrac, would you please tell me why you brought me here?" he said at last.

"You'll see."

A few minutes later, and Joly and Musichetta came in. Joly looked surprised when he saw the others, but Musichetta smiled and waved. They came over to their table, as Combeferre sank lower into his hands. "Hello, friends," said Joly. "We're on a date." He patted Musichetta's hand, which rested on his arm. "You're here to enjoy the wine?"

Combeferre groaned, loudly, but Courfeyrac stood, catching Feuilly's hand as he did, and heaved his victim up to his feet. "Musichetta," he said, ignoring Joly, "this is Sacha-Josef Feuilly, the brilliant artist I told you about. Sacha-Josef Feuilly, this is Musichetta."

Feuilly swallowed and managed an awkward bow. "Pleasure," he murmured.

Musichetta curtsied, while still holding onto Joly's arm. "Likewise."

An uneasy silence followed. Joly cleared his throat, and said, "Well, it was lovely to see you here. We'll be just over there." He led Musichetta away to another table close by.

As soon as they left, Feuilly turned on Courfeyrac. "What was that all about?"

Courfeyrac gave him an innocent smile. "What? I was simply introducing you to Musichetta."

Combeferre banged his hands on the table. "He's trying to set you up with her, Feuilly."

"What?!" This exclamation came not from Feuilly, but from Joly. He barreled back over to them, Musichetta following. Joly planted himself in front of Courfeyrac, his usually pasty-white face red, his hazel eyes burning. He placed his hands on the armrests of the chair and leaned close to Courfeyrac so that their noses almost touched. Courfeyrac cringed against the back of the chair, realizing he had forgotten how dangerous Joly got when angered. He also remembered that it took tremendous effort to anger light-hearted Joly. He must have really blown it this time. "You know I respect you and your ridiculous ideas, Courfeyrac, but when it comes to Musichetta, you should know better than to mess with me," Joly seethed.

Courfeyrac nodded, disliking the proximity of Joly's face. "Okay. Got it, Jolllly," he gasped. "Your breath stinks, by the way."

Joly glowered. "What?"

"I said, your breath stinks."

"It does, Hyacinthe," said Musichetta in a small voice behind him.

Joly groaned. "Why didn't you tell me before I kissed you?"

Silence on Musichetta's part, but Feuilly interjected. "Will you all just stop? Courfeyrac, I appreciate the effort, but please leave finding a girl for me up to me. Joly, despite Courfeyrac's lame plan, Chetta is still with you. I have no intention of taking her from you. Are we all good?"

Joly narrowed his eyes. "Fine. Just don't do it again, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac, smiling once more, nodded. "I won't."

Joly left him in peace and retreated to his table with Musichetta. Feuilly glared at Courfeyrac and left the Musain. Combeferre lifted his head from his hands and looked over at Courfeyrac, who still grinned like an idiot.

"Told you I might die."

"Well, you got what you wanted. Recklessness. I'm going to have to ask for twenty francs, though."

Courfeyrac snorted. "Excuse me, M'sieur Combeferre. I still have one day left."

"And you seriously think you can find the perfect girl for Feuilly in that time, even after he specifically told you not to?"

"It was a suggestion. And yes, I do."

* * *

Needless to say, while Combeferre sat in the Luxembourg Gardens the next day reading Rousseau, Feuilly walked by with a girl swathed in pink hanging on his arm, and Combeferre almost felt off his bench from staring after them as long as he could. Courfeyrac leaned against a tree by Combeferre, grinning like an imp. "When I see an opportunity, I take it, my dear Combeferre. Besides, haven't you learned by now that I rarely lose bets?"

* * *

 **The girl in pink will appear again in a later installment. :D**


	11. 33 Percent: Combeferre, Joly

**Another light-hearted chapter for y'all! I have no idea what Combeferre and Joly were trying to make. Please forgive any scientific mistakes I may have made - I am no chemist.**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**

* * *

 _A drawing of Combeferre and Joly, leaning over what looks like an anatomy book, their foreheads almost touching, their hair tousled and damp with sweat. Both have dark circles under their eyes, and Combeferre sags a little over the table the book rests on. Joly's finger points to a page, and he smiles, tired, but Combeferre returns it. They have discovered something revolutionary._

"It's supposed to be 67% acid and 33% base," said Etienne Combeferre, measuring out drops of a dark-colored liquid.

"Are you sure? I thought it was 67% base and 33% acid," said his companion, Hyacinthe-Félicien Joly.

Combeferre gave Joly a "that's very nice but you're quite wrong, dear" smile. "Jolllly, you spend every lecture paying more attention to the new problems you find with yourself than to the lecture. I, on the other hand, actually take notes. It's 33% acid, I mean base." He moved to pour the liquid into the tall beaker standing on the kitchen table, but Joly took the vial from him.

"Well, that may be, but I specifically recall M. Latude saying that if the mixture is off by even a fraction, it could produce a disastrous result."

Combeferre sighed. "Of course you remember that part. Well, I remember it, too, and I made a careful note of the measurements in my tablet. See? 67% acid and 33% base."

"But supposing you got it wrong? And despite what you say, Combeferre, I did take notes during that lecture, and wrote down the exact measurements as M. Latude showed us." Joly thrust his tablet under Combeferre's nose and jabbed at a scribble in the middle of the page. "67% base, 33% acid."

Combeferre pushed it away. "33% acid will not give it the potency that it requires."

Joly pursed his lips. "And 67% base is also rather potent."

"Yes, but it needs an acidic potency to eat away at the chemical build-up."

"No, you see? That's wrong. The chemicals are also acidic. They will just neutralize each other."

"Well, that's almost as good as eating it."

"It is not. It needs more base, Combeferre!"

Combeferre lunged over the table at Joly, grasping for the vial, but Joly held it out of his reach. Combeferre walked around the table and tackled Joly. The two fell to the floor, the vial knocking out of Joly's hand. Combeferre untangled himself from Joly, grabbed the vial and returned to the table. "Now," he continued, "33% base," and poured the liquid into the beaker. Joly glared at him from the floor. Combeferre rolled his eyes. "Get up, Joly." He picked up another vial and swished it around. "67% acid," and emptied it into the beaker as well. He grinned at Joly triumphantly. "See? It's all right."

Joly struggled to his feet. "Now test it, Socrates."

Combeferre returned Joly's glare. "Fine, but you must test it also." He poured the mixture into two shot glasses.

Joly took one. "If I die, it's your fault."

Combeferre laughed. "If we did it your way, we would certainly die." He drained his glass.

Joly hesitated, then downed his as well.

* * *

When Bossuet returned to the apartment that evening, he found Combeferre and Joly passed out on the kitchen floor. They were not dead, only unconscious, from a slight overdose of laudanum and absinthe.

Combeferre later told Joly, "Perhaps we ought to make sure we have the right ingredients before we argue about their amounts."

"Indeed. If we had put in just 34% of that laudanum, neither of us might still be here."

To which Combeferre replied, a little smug, "Like I said, if we had done it your way, Joly, and put in 67% laudanum, we certainly would not be."


	12. Dead Wrong: Enjy, Combeferre, Courfeyrac

**Okay, I think you've had enough of a breather, so here's another barricade fic! *throws confetti, then hides* Please don't kill me!**

 **Also, my apologies for my use of "Enjy" in the chapter title. I didn't have enough space to write all three of their names, so I had to make do.**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**

* * *

 _Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac – the three leaders, the pillars of the Friends of the ABC. Feuilly depicted them discussing a matter over a long table. Courfeyrac and Combeferre stand in the foreground, Courfeyrac pointing to a map of Paris, his expression fierce, and Combeferre, his arms folded, his eyes cold. These two frame Enjolras, who sits at the end of the table, his feet up, his face serene, a smile on his lips. They will come to a consensus. They always did._

"The people will come," said Enjolras, gazing over the men of the barricade. His eyes flickered once to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who stood close beside him, his best friends. "We have ignited a spark here which will burst into a flame! The people will march along beside us, and bring down the injustice which plagues us all."

Combeferre cleared his throat. "You give them much credit," he said in a low voice.

Enjolras ignored him. "Do you hear the people sing?"

The men roared in assent, shaking the guns in their hands.

"Vive la France!" Enjolras shouted, and the men took up the refrain.

"Vive la France!"

Afterwards, Combeferre and Courfeyrac took Enjolras aside. Combeferre placed his hands on Enjolras' shoulders. "I have much faith in our countrymen, friend. But what if they don't come?"

Enjolras didn't meet Combeferre's steady blue gaze. "Why wouldn't they? They receive the brunt of the king's follies. They are Feuilly's people. He is passionate for the Cause." His voice dropped. "Perhaps more so than myself."

Courfeyrac spoke, his usually cheerful face serious. "Yes, but Feuilly is a rare man, noble and strong." He paused. "He is also a redhead. But he is not all the people of Paris. Most of them are cowards. It is they who left Feuilly starve in the streets when he was orphaned. You know this."

Enjolras glared at Courfeyrac. "Have more faith, André. You sound like my grandfather. Or worse, like Marius."

Combeferre sighed. "We're trying to be realistic."

Enjolras shook him off. "Realists only get mankind so far. Eventually, dreamers take their place. Go talk to Prouvaire."

"I think you have it mixed up. First dreamers catalyze events, and then realists see them through."

"Why are we discussing this now, now when there's no turning back?" Enjolras turned back to the barricade.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac watched him go. "I have mentioned it before," said Combeferre. "Multiple times. You must have forgotten."

Enjolras turned once to look back at his two friends, his expression a mixture of anger – and guilt.

* * *

Dawn broke over the barricade.

The people had not come.

Enjolras fired shot after shot at their assailants, his mind clouded and numb. His arms and hands repeated the same motion, over and over, mechanical, cock, _click,_ squeeze, the jolt, the ringing, pass down the old rifle, take the new one, again. He hadn't thought anything since the fight began. One horrible image blurred before his eyes. Courfeyrac, the Center, the round, bright Center, dead. Like Bahorel and Father Mabeuf and Prouvaire and Gavroche – why had he even been there? But he still had Combeferre, his Guide, though, and he cursed himself, he hadn't even listened to him. Out of the corner of his eye, above him, he saw Combeferre, reaching down over something. He dared looking up – one brief moment, just making sure his Guide was all right.

Three seconds.

Three bayonets.

They caught Combeferre's body, and he shuddered into them, fragile, like the moths he drew. They pulled away, leaving him slipping into his blood.

Enjolras didn't even realize he had thrown down his rifle and was scrambling up the barricade, screaming, _"Etienne!"_ until Feuilly grabbed him and wrestled him back down before he met the same fate. As Feuilly pushed him toward the wine shop for cover, Enjolras' cloudy mind bled within him, and he thought –

 _I was dead wrong._


	13. Running Away: Laigle

**No, I did not participate in a revolution and die on a barricade, I merely lost my inspiration somewhere in the sewers. But I have returned! I hope this newest installment doesn't disappoint!**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**

* * *

 _A portrait of Bossuet, laughing. He looks over his shoulder, mild surprise registered on his face, his dark eyes slits of mirth. He looks dashing, and almost handsome. Feuilly's pencil was gentler on his friend than on his own face._

"I propose a game," Courfeyrac announced.

"Courfeyrac, we really do not have time for this," growled Enjolras.

"Oh, come now. The men deserve a break." Courfeyrac flashed his signature grin at the chief, who held up his hands in defeat.

"Fine, then. What is your game?"

"Each us will tell the rest something about ourselves that no one else here knows about."

Marius lit up. This was one of the few times he actually came to a meeting of the Friends of the ABC. "I know! I have a love, a beautiful girl with . . ."

Courfeyrac coughed. "Um, sorry, Marius, but we all already knew that."

Marius deflated. "Oh."

"How about this," Courfeyrac continued. "I broke my arm when I was ten."

"I thought it was both your arms," said Jean Prouvaire, a little too innocently.

Courfeyrac grumbled. "Right. I forgot you were there."

"I have a sister," Feuilly put in.

"I'm afraid we all know that also," said Combeferre.

Feuilly frowned. "I don't think I've ever mentioned her before."

Courfeyrac coughed again. "Well, Louise has quite the loose tongue . . ."

Feuilly slapped his forehead. " _That's_ Louise? You're dating my sister?!"

Courfeyrac grinned and shrugged. "She never told you?"

" _You_ never told me!"

"Sorry."

"I have something," Bossuet offered. Everyone turned toward him. He blushed, much like Prouvaire, but pushed ahead. "I ran away when I was five. My baby brother had just been born, and Maman was so occupied, she no longer had any time for me. I felt lonely, so I put all my toys into a suitcase along with a bag of cookies, and ran away."

"Very practical," said Combeferre with a small smile.

Bossuet laughed. "Oh, yes. I ran away into the woods behind our house. I didn't stay there for more than an hour, though. I got bored and felt even lonelier. So I came back." His grin widened. "There was a couple I didn't know visiting when I got there. A couple with a boy a little younger than myself. They put us together and then ignored us. We played together all afternoon. And - and I haven't been lonely since."

Joly, also grinning, said in a quiet voice, "I'm glad you didn't run away permanently."

"As am I."

After a sweet moment of silence, Courfeyrac cut in, "But I already knew that one, too, Bossuet."


	14. Judgement: Bahorel

**I'm sorry it's been so long! I hope those of you whom I didn't scare away enjoy this installment!**

 **Much love,**

 **Unicadia**

* * *

 _A drawing of Bahorel leaning against a wall. He lifts one leg and rests his foot against the wall as well. He holds his head slightly away from the viewer, his face placid, but to anyone who knew him, this is frightening. His jaw is tight, and he crumples a piece of paper in his hand. Scribbled below the drawing are these words: Les humeurs de Bahorel – Bahorel's moods._

"Bahorel, what did you do this time?"

Feuilly gave Bahorel a warning look, but Bahorel merely laughed.

"You worry too much," he said with a smirk.

Feuilly rolled his eyes. "We're supposed to be trying to liberate France and you end up in jail for what I'm assuming is some sort of petty crime. What kind of example do you think you are setting? You can bet we're not earning the respect of the National Guard."

"Hey, they don't know I'm part of the rebellion, so if you're afraid I'm going to give you all a bad name, well, I'm not."

Feuilly bristled. Bahorel could at least have the decency to look sorry. Instead, he had to grin like an idiot and keep laughing like he were flirting some pretty girl instead of talking to his best friend through bars. "What did you do?"

"What does it matter? As soon as my parents send money to bail me out, it will all be in the past and we can go back to hanging out in bars and picking fights – I mean, listening to Enjolras' oh-so-carefully-prepared speeches." And then he wriggled his eyebrows at Feuilly.

Feuilly could have slapped Bahorel, but he restrained himself. "Watch what you say, you big idiot. You know those speeches are for the good of all the oppressed of France."

Bahorel kept grinning.

"Like me."

Bahorel reached out and plucked Feuilly's hat off his head and twirled it in his hand. "Seriously, Sacha, you take yourself and Enjolras and everything else way too seriously. Lighten up."

Feuilly's brown eyes flashed. "You think this is some sort of game, Bahorel? Does the Cause even mean anything to you? Perhaps Enjolras misjudged you. Perhaps you should leave."

Bahorel froze mid-twirl, and the grin disappeared as he turned the full intensity of his gaze on the fan-maker. Feuilly could not help allowing himself an indulgent smile. "Leave? As in –"

"Yes, as in stop coming to the meetings and go off and do things you find more meaningful such as, oh, how did you put it? 'Hanging out in bars and picking fights'?"

Bahorel reddened.

"I mean, if you think so little of everything we're working for, and would rather do things that end you up in jail, go for it."

Bahorel looked away. Feuilly felt a stab of guilt, but he did not take back his words and kept his gaze fixed on his friend.

After a moment, Bahorel looked back up, a smirk tugging at the side of his mouth. "Well, then. I guess I know what I'll be doing when I get out."

Feuilly narrowed his eyes. "What?"

Bahorel let out a whooping roar of a laugh, scaring Feuilly out of twenty years of his life. "Listening to more of Enjolras' oh-so-carefully-prepared speeches!"

Shaking, Feuilly managed a smile as he snatched his hat back. "Good." He turned to leave, then stopped. "You still haven't told me how you got in here."

"Pfft." Bahorel waved his hand dismissively. "Nothin'. Just riling up a crowd with something about 'freedom for the oppressed.' Nothing important." He winked.

Feuilly shook his head and left.


End file.
